No Burial for the Murdered
by Heika
Summary: If only this war had not happened. Then we wouldn’t be standing here, forced to make such a decision."


**Fandom: **Full Metal Alchemist  
**Title:** No Burial for the Murdered  
**Author:** Heika  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own Full Metal Alchemist, nor either of the two characters used herein.  
**Author's Notes:** This work is an interpretation of one of the incidents in the Ishbalan conflict that seemed to have the largest effect on Roy Mustang. It's also an attempt to add a bit of flavor to an otherwise neglected culture.

* * *

How had it come to this? Two different men, forced by fate to confront each other. Both expected to kill the other. Both, ultimately, utterly terrified, yet unable to act. 

The first was one of the many Ishbalan insurgents. He had seen his family destroyed by the Devil's Art, his country invaded and his people maligned... and Ishbala forgive him, but he had _wished_ for the moment when he could kill the Amestris demons. No, it was more than that: he wanted to make them _suffer_, to pay them back for each and every death. Now, however... he was staring Death in the eyes, and his bronzed skin was trembling.

Opposite him was Roy Mustang, then a Major. His normally blue uniform was stained red and black with soot and blood; he managed to keep his confident demeanor from cracking, but his face was as white as the glove that he brandished at the Ishbalan. He had wanted to be a hero... and now he found himself a glorified butcher. More than anything, he just wanted the war to end, for the bloodshed to cease... but that was an impossible dream: not enough people had died.

For a long moment, they were frozen in place. The Ishbalan had just reloaded his rifle, and it was still pointed at the ground: he wouldn't have time to aim and fire before the demon could snap his fingers. An errant thought went through his mind: _I will be burned alive in my own home by the same demon that took my family._

He closed his ruby-red eyes, and braced for death. "'There shall be no burial for the murdered. Their body shall be cremated and their spirit released to torment their killer for all eternity.' Thus are the words of Ishbala." As he said this, the bronze-skinned boy shuddered. "How many of us have you killed?"

That cracked Mustang's facade. He muttered, "Far too many."

One red eye opened. "Can you still sleep at night?"

"No," Mustang admitted, reluctantly. "Not at all."

There was another long pause, as the two measured each other. How were they to know that, if the war had not occurred, they would never have met; their lives would not have crossed paths? But such was not their fate; here they were, and they both knew that only one would escape the encounter alive. Both were also certain that the one who lived would not emerge unchanged.

The Ishbalan shuddered. "Why are you hesitating?"

"I... don't know." Mustang frowned. "Why is this time any different from the others?"

"From my family!?" The Ishbalan's eyes blazed. "You took all of them from me without a glance backward, and now you hesitate when faced with just one?" His hand clenched on the butt of his rifle. "What's another senseless death?"

The white glove trembled. "This entire war has been senseless. It needs to stop somewhere."

"That won't happen." The Ishbalan frowned. "You won't be satisfied until we're completely scattered. That's the punishment for tolerating your devilry for so long."

"Do you… think I am a demon?"

The Ishbalan glared at Roy. "Yes. Only a monster could even think about doing what you've done. Only a demon could use the fire of Hell itself to burn the innocent." The red eyes narrowed. "Do you honestly think of yourself as a human being?"

Once again, there was a pause. Mustang couldn't think of a response to this; the guilt was crushing him, and it seemed that the only part of his body that wasn't effected was his right hand. The same hand that had claimed so many before…

The Ishbalan closed his eyes once more, again bracing for death. His mind went back to the days before the war: the peaceful life that he longed for, the love that had bound his family together… and the faith that united both temple and village. But those days were long gone: he had no family to go back to, both church and village were rubble. The only thing he had left was his faith.

"Then, I will haunt you, too. If there's anything of humanity left in you, you won't be able to escape me." The words were brave enough, but his voice trembled almost as badly as his hands did.

"Don't do this. Don't force me to kill you, too." Mustang wasn't ordering, nor was he making a request. He was pleading, begging the Ishbalan to reconsider.

_If only this war had not happened. Then we wouldn't be standing here, forced to make such a decision._

Red eyes met black, and there was one last pause. One last opportunity to reconsider the destructive path they were thrown on. They were both shaking, both trying to think of another way out. However, there was really nothing that could be done, in the end.

It was the Ishbalan that acted first. _Ishbala forgive me: I can't be alone anymore._ He reached for his rifle, and wrenched it upward.

There was a snap of the fingers, and another life was obliterated by Roy Mustang's hand.


End file.
